great hero,
homeless, hopeless, my towering city in chaos, her
ancient
winding streets like interlocked serpents afire in
their own
dark blood — and I can do nothing, exiled, ruined for
Medeia—
ruined despite all my nobly intoned coronation vows. Vows indeed! Ask Trojan Hektor his feeling on vows, forced to defend an old lecher. Ask Hektor’s brother.
The gods
themselves pit vow against vow as men pit fighting
cocks.”
He paused, rubbing his throat and jaw, relaxing
muscles
that seemed to grow more constricted with every word.
Then:
“I could still be king there, sharing the throne with a
dodling uncle
I never hated, whatever he thought of me. But it wasn’t room enough for the daughter of mighty Aietes, Lord of the Bulls, Keeper of the Golden Fleece. So here
we are,
blood on the soles of our feet, heads filled with
nightmare-visions,
guilt more chilling than the halls of the dead.
My friends on the Argo would laugh, in the winds of
hell, if they heard it.
“It might be comforting … Kreon’s child. A gentler
princess,
as slight, by Medeia, as these hills next to the
Caucasus. …
” He pursed his lips, jaw muscles drawn in the
semi-dark
of temple columns, flickering torches; his eyes were
suddenly
remote, as if even casual mention of those windy days on strange seas, strange shores, could make them rise
in his mind
more real than the quiet night he loomed in now.
He closed
his eyes, breathed deep. The blind man bent his head,
as if
to listen to Jason’s mind sheared free of words. Jason turned abruptly to look at the palace, then away again. “At one quick stroke I could win not only the throne
of Corinth—
huge old city with all its wide, deep-grounded walls— but all my power back home. That’s all they’ve asked
of me:
Renounce the witch and her murder of Pelias; abandon
Medeia,
and Argos is yours — now Corinth as well. Why not?
No wife
at all, a prize of war that I treated too well, a bedslave grown too mighty to be tamed like Theseus’ Amazon. Betrayal, perhaps; but the guilt would be trifling beside
that guilt
that brings King Pelias’ ghost back night after night
to stalk
my rest — hooded like a cobra, silent, eyes as mad as Argos left without a king. And if I do nothing, what
then?
Get up, eat, take a walk, eat, stare out a window, eat again.… Surely, whatever my promises, no mere woman can hold me to that! ‘Stay clear of
the palace!’
A law. Who’d dare disobey the great, fierce daughter
of Aietes?”
He paused, musing. “There are laws and laws. I told
my tales
for Kreon, kind old benefactor. But I’d watch the girl as I told of those terrible battles, curious islands, long
nights
rolling in the arms of queens. She had a special blush she saved for me. There were times when she touched
my arm as if
by accident. I encouraged it — pressed it. I could no more
pass up
a thing like that than I could pass up a cave, an
unknown city,
in the old days. It meant nothing, God knows—
except to Medeia.
One more conquest. — Winning means more than it
should to me,
no doubt. The usual case of the overly reasonable man who’s turned his cheek too often. — And yet I resisted,
in the end.
Heaven knows why.” He studied the night. “I make up
theories.
I tell myself I resist for Medeia’s sake. Offend the king and our last hope’s gone, we’re wandering
exiles again.’
I piously mumble: ‘Beware of wounding Medeia’s pride.’
“—All the same, whatever the reason,
I dodged the limetwig, slyly evaded his pretty Pyripta before the old man was aware himself what he planned
for me.
So Pelias comes, nights; stands in the shadows like
a dead tree—
solemn old ramdike trailing vines, mere daddock at
the core—
demanding something — the prince’s head in his hands,
Akastos
whom I loved once — loved as I loved myself, I’d have
said.
Guilt-raised ghosts.
“I know, I think, what they want of me.
Climb back. Redeem your home through Corinth’s
power. Atone.
My mind stretches toward it, trembling, and all at once I’m afraid. Beyond old Pelias’ ghost and that severed
head
There’s darkness, an abyss. — And yet what is it I fear,
I wonder?
Is conquering Jason the slave at last?” He paused, lips
pursed,
and glanced at the seer. “The night has a growl of
winter in it.
Stars like the flicker of corpse-candles, a sparkle of frost on the bronze lich-gate. Over soon. Grain of the valleys winnowed, garnered … whatever claims we’ve made
on the season
silenced, settling in the bin; on the snowed-in storehouse
walls
no lamps but dreaming bats. And for those who’ve made
no claims—”
Again he paused, reflecting, staring at the ground. At
last:
“If I went my way I could make Medeia rich, respected; if not a queen, then mother, at least, of kings — no cost but a night, now and then, alone in her golden bed.
That would not
wreck her, I think. In any case, let this chance slip, let some old enemy of ours snatch Kreon’s throne—
and where are we
then? This too: If I try and lose, that’s one thing.
But to let some fat fool win it by default—
“No, plainer than that.
She’s an Easterner, and a woman. She reasons with
her chest, the roots
of her hair. I should know too well by now where such
reasoning leads
— her brother murdered, betrayed to confound Aietes’
ships;
my uncle carved, strained, boiled by his daughter’s love;
and us
adrift, horrible to men. Late as it is, I should seize my duty as husband and father — the hope that lies in
Akhaian,
masculine brains, detached, remote from the violent
instincts
of child-bearing and giving suck, what women share with the lioness. I’ve left our destiny too long in witchcraft’s hands.” He paused, glanced at the blind
Theban.
“Say what you’re thinking.”
The blind man sat like stone, the light
of torches stirring on his cheek. His sunken eyes stared
out
at darkness beyond the harbor. “Men come for my help
in prayer,”
he said, “or for reading of oracles. What right have I to advise?”
“But say what you think.”
The old black Theban sighed,
continued looking at the night. The end is inevitable,” he said. His eyebrows, silver and thick as frost on rock, drew up, and he groped for Jason’s hand. He found and
held it.
“You want no advice from me, and even if you did,
the end
is destined. I need no help of signs to see that much, heavy as I am with experience. For seven generations I’ve watched the world’s grim processes. I saw the teeth of the dragon Kadmos slew rise up as fierce armed
men; I saw that perfect king and his queen
transmogrified